Her Knight in Pastel Shorts
by cruiseaholic
Summary: "It just wasn't fair. How could Cam be so nice, so sweet, so willing to always step in and take care of her—all the while remaining so, so unavailable." oneshot, T for language/alcohol


Colors blur together, the room spinning in circles and the lights flashing in tempo with the pulsing electronic music. Claire Lyons pushes her pale blonde hair back out of her face with one hand, the other thrown carelessly up to the sky as she swings her hips—off-beat, but after the eighth shot of tequila she doesn't notice or care. There's a boy with his hands on her hips, pulling her firmly against him—when did she start dancing with him? He turns her around to face him, pulling her even more tightly against him, and there's only a moment of squinting at his blurred face in the dim lighting to try and determine whether or not he's even cute before his lips are forcibly mashed against hers.

Disgusted, Claire puts her hands on his chest and tries to push him away, but he only shoves his tongue further down her throat. She twists her face away from him and he roughly grabs her chin with one hand, his other hand working its way up the hem of her skirt. And then both hands are ripped off of her and the boy (who, she is able to determine now, is NOT cute) is stumbling away clutching the hand that was formerly on her ass to his nose, the other thrown up in defeat, while dark-haired, beautiful Cam Fisher peers down at her with one-blue-and-one-green eyes, his hands resting gently on her arms. Cam Fisher, her hero. Her knight in pastel Lacoste shorts come to save the day.

"Are you okay?" he asks. She nods, trying her best to suppress the huge grin threatening to spread across her face.

"Take it easy, okay? I wanna know that you're going to make it home safe."

She nods again, her heart soaring. But then her smile fades and her heart crashes back down to earth, breaking into a million pieces as with one last look, he turns and walks away—back to Massie, his girlfriend. Beautiful Massie Block with her cascading locks of shiny brown hair and perfectly applied makeup that somehow hasn't smudged at all over the course of the night. He slides an arm around her waist and Claire remembers why she got so drunk in the first place. Teetering in in her five-inch platforms, she stumbles back to the bar for another round. But then Cam glances his back at her, his features etched with concern, and Claire changes her order to a glass of water. She catches his eye and winks, raising the glass to him. Visibly relaxing, Cam smiles back. And Claire tells herself that it is enough.

* * *

But it's not enough. When Claire wakes up the next morning, her head throbbing, it's not the awful hangover that makes her want to pull her covers back over her face and stay in bed forever. Images of Cam and Massie flash through her brain—Cam and Massie dancing together, Cam and Massie holding hands, Cam and Massie kissing. Her stomach turns and the covers are ripped from her body, revealing last night's skirt hitched up around her waist, and she's on all fours on the bathroom floor, emptying the contents of her stomach, wishing her feelings for Cam could be discarded as easily.

It just wasn't fair. How could Cam be so nice, so sweet, so willing to always step in and take care of her—all the while remaining so, so unavailable. The role of "rescuer" should only belong to three guys in a girl's life: her father, her brother, and her boyfriend. And Cam sure as hell wasn't any of those.

As the day went on, Claire put herself through the motions of day-to-day existence—showering, forcing some semblance of food down her throat, attempting to get at least SOME of her homework done—and all the while her thoughts stayed focused on stupid Cam and his stupid need to protect her. She, Claire Lyons, was a strong, single, independent young woman who could handle herself, and she didn't need any rescuing—particularly not by some weird-eyed douchebag with a girlfriend.

And so that night she found herself once again several shots in wearing a barely-there skirt and platform heels, dancing in the sketchy basement of a guy whose guest list consisted primarily of numbers listed in his contacts under names like "Hot Blonde From Last Night" and "Big Titties." She caught sight of Cam playing beer pong across the room and defiantly raised the handle of Skol she stole from the bar to her mouth and took a long pull before stumbling over to him, vodka sloshing over the mouth of the bottle and onto the floor. Cam frowned.

"Can you put that down?" he asked, gesturing towards the Skol.

Claire answered by taking another pull.

"Come on, Claire, don't you think you've had enough?"

"I think I can determine for myself whether I've had eenuffff," she slurred.

Cam pushed his hand through his hair, sighing. "I worry about you, Claire. I see the way guys look at you and—I just don't want you getting taken advantage of."

"Why? Why is that your concern? You're not my brother and you're not my boyfriend, so why do you care?"

Cam had no answer for that, and Claire turned on her heel to storm off.

"Wait!" he called after her, stopping her in her tracks. "Can you please just let me take you home?"

Claire whirled around to face him. "Why? So you can tuck me in and read me a bedtime story? No thanks." She raised the handle to her mouth, taking another pull.

And then she blacked out.

* * *

The next morning she woke up in a bed that is certainly not hers, confusion sinking in as she struggled to remember how she got there. She glances to her left and spots a pair of boy's boxers crumpled on the ground and panic wells up within her. Did she-? But then panic is replaced by relief as she glances down at her body and finds herself dressed in an oversize Tomahawks t-shirt smelling of an oh-too-familiar combination of Drakkar Noir and soap. And in case she needed further confirmation, there in the corner Cam reclines uncomfortably in a chair, fast asleep.

Relief is followed by regret as all the horrible things she said to him come flooding back to her. He was just trying to be a good friend and help her out and she repaid him by being an ungrateful bitch. She tries not to make any noise as she climbs out of bed to collect her things, but as if on cue Cam's head jerks upright and his eyes fly open the second her bare feet hit the ground.

"How you feeeeling?" he yawned.

"Okay," she replied, noting an empty bottle of water on the bedside table. A memory of Cam propping her head up with one hand and holding the bottle to her lips with the other, telling her she couldn't go to sleep until she drank all of it, flashed through her mind, and her sense of shame deepened.

"Look, Cam…I don't remember that much of what happened last night, but I do know that I was completely awful to you and you didn't deserve it."

"No, some of what you were saying made sense—in a weird, drunken kinda way," Cam laughed. His cheek dimpled adorably and Claire felt a pang in her chest. Even now, in last night's rumpled clothing and with his hair sticking out in random places, he was still completely, one hundred percent the cutest boy she had ever seen.

"You were right. I have no right to tell you what to do or who to do it with—but you're still my friend and I still care about you and I just don't want to see you to get hurt. But I promise I'll dial down the big brother act if you promise to dial down the drinking. You promise?"

"I promise," Claire laughed. They smiled at each other for a moment, and then Cam's phone burst into life, blaring the obnoxious default ringtone he'd never bothered to change.

"That'll be Massie," he said, grabbing his phone and heading for the door. "Feel free to shower or take any clean clothes you want, whatever." He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and Claire sighed, collapsing back down onto his bed. She saw the look on his face when he said Massie's name. It was the same look that crossed her face anytime she talked about him. She reached for her own phone and propped herself up against the pillows, scrolling lazily through her messages. One from Layne demanding to know whether she and Cam finally hooked up, one from her mom letting her know that last season's Hunter boots were on clearance if she wanted a pair. And then one from a number she didn't recognize.

9145550601: hey claire its josh from last night. u probably dont remember me but i was wondering if u wanted to get dinner sometime

She vaguely recalled talking to a dark-haired boy with sharp cheekbones and a hint of stubble and wondered if it was the same guy.

"Hey Cam?" she called. "Did I meet someone named Josh last night?"

Cam poked his head through the door, holding the phone to his chest. "Yeah, Josh Hotz, he's one of my buddies from soccer. He helped me carry you home last night."

"Huh." Claire glanced back down at her phone. Like Cam, this Josh kid had come to her rescue last night—but judging from his text, there was nothing brotherly about it. She felt a rush of embarrassment at how big of a mess she must've been, but clearly he'd still liked her enough to ask her to dinner the next morning.

"Yeah," she texted back, "I'd love to. :)"


End file.
